


Souls

by missdeathfrisbee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Boys Kissing, Bullying, Drug Use, Drugs, Emotions, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Teenagers, Teenlock, Unconditional Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 04:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4421555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missdeathfrisbee/pseuds/missdeathfrisbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No one knows much about the human soul. But I'll let you in on a little secret. It exists." </p>
<p>John and Sherlock are soulmates. But they're only teenagers when they meet, and suddenly all that was important before no longer is. Sherlock hates it. John couldn't care less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something

**Author's Note:**

> So hi. This fic is little different from my usual stuff, so bear with me. Johnlock of course, and some angst may ensue. Be prepared for rambles. I hope you like it.

No one knows much about the human soul.

It's existence is controversial, and it's acceptance is still to come. Religion takes the concept of the soul and makes it pure and untouchable, unless tainted by sin and darkness. The majority of modern society seems to take the route of cold logic- the body is a shell, a machine, nothing more.

But I'll let you in on a little secret.

It exists.

It is more real than what you see here- the unearthly glare of your computer or phone displaying letters that scatter over this website's page, black on white and so very solid. It is more real than your fears, or your doubts and misconceptions. More real than the roof or sky over you head- more real than you.

But we're not here to talk about you. Sorry.

No, we're here to talk about two people- two very specific people, and how their souls were made to meet. I believe ordinary people refer to the common term 'soulmates'. It isn't called this- but you've had enough secrets for today.

This is the story of Sherlock and John.

*

John had met him before. He was sure of it.

He'd seen those eyes. Those eyes that were the colour of... something. The sea? No, too overused a metaphor. The sky? Can't be- the sky was everywhere, the sky was too... _common_. John had always liked the sky and sea- they were both blue, and that meant the world had decided to let the two extremes correspond. When they sky raged, the sea raged with it.

But that didn't matter anymore. What was blue? John couldn't remember. But his eyes, they weren't blue, and they weren't green, and they weren't gold. They were the colour of... something.

Something.

He saw John staring- has he noticed John's eyes? They're blue. John thinks. And even if his aren't blue, or green, or even gold, could he and John still be the sky and sea?

John was still staring.

"Stop."

John did.

When he found the courage to look again- some time later, time is irrelevant- he was gone. John didn't know his name, but he had met him before (he was sure of it). He'd lost something- something- hadn't he? He checked his pocket- phone, keys, gum, stupid and pointless things- but they were all there. But he'd lost something.

Something.

And it's usually the feeling you've lost something that tells you you need to be looking for it.

*

John saw him next outside his window. He'd not been waiting for him, hand resting on the windowsill- John swears. He'd just been looking out the window, and he'd been standing there.

It was night. He stood by a street lamp, and it was like he was giving the warm light permission to shine on him. John was certain if he didn't want it to he'd be shrouded in darkness, and then John wouldn't see him anymore. John was glad he wanted it to.

He lifted a cigarette to his lips, and then let the smoke disapear into the blackness hugging his cocoon of orange. Then he did it again. John felt like he was the smoke- was he not allowed in the orange cocoon? John wished he was.

Then he looked at him. He was tall. Much taller than John, but not taller then the street lamp, not that it would have mattered. Because when he looked at him, John couldn't see the street lamp anymore.

Don't ask John why he did it. He'll never say.

He breathed onto the window- he was still breathing? John didn't realise- and then wrote in the condensation. He wrote it backwards, perfectly. But his hand was shaking.

_Who are you?_

He smirked, then, and John blanched. He should have opened the window and asked, because now, he wouldn't reply. Of course he wouldn't- he had eyes the colour of something and his own cocoon of light. John had a window with condensation on it. _Of course he wouldn't reply._

John stared again as he walked up, dark coat swishing, and faced the window. The lamp flickered off behind him. Then he breathed onto the window too, and his breath came out like his smoke, and then he wrote, backwards, perfectly, hands like pale spiders dancing.

_Sherlock Holmes._

And then he left, and so did his name; it faded away into the glass of the window.

*

Sherlock was new at the school. John couldn't have met him before now- he came from down south, Kent, and John had never been to Kent. And Sherlock had never been to London.

But John had definitely met him before (he was certain).

Chemistry. The bane of John's life. His downfall. He sat there in Chemistry, ignoring Mrs Jenkins, twiddling his pencil and thinking about Sherlock Holmes. With his spidery hands; his cocoon of light; his eyes the colour of... something. John still didn't really know what. But then he wasn't thinking anymore but seeing, because standing next to Mrs Jenkins was Sherlock Holmes. John rubbed his eyes until amoebas floated before him. Sherlock Holmes was there. Sherlock Holmes would need somewhere to sit. There was an empty seat next to John.

John hadn't really made any friends here. That was why the seat was empty. But deep down he'd always known the seat was Sherlock's.

And Sherlock sat in it.

"Hello," John said, face blank. "I'm John Watson."

Sherlock ignored him. John went back to twiddling his pencil and disregarding Mrs Jenkins.

*

The next Chemistry lesson, Sherlock sat in the same seat. _Why wouldn't he_ , thought John. _It's Sherlock's seat._

"Hello," John said again. Habit. Sherlock didn't say anything. Didn't even look at him.

John twiddled his pencil again.

*

Mrs Jenkins was talking about titrations the next lesson. Sherlock came in late. She yelled. He didn't care.

"Hello," John chirped as Sherlock sat down. The boy stared at him this time, with those eyes, and he looked confused.

"What?" he asked, and John smiled. Sherlock thought it looked like early morning rain, when the sky is electric blue and you don't mind the breeze cutting into your cheek. That was what John Watson's smile was like.

"I just said hello."

"Why?"

John shrugged.

"You've said hello to me every lesson so far. I've also ignored you. Were you planning on giving up any time soon?"

"No," John said through his smile, smitten. "Not really."

Sherlock found this very interesting. More interesting than all the types of tobacco ash. And secret Chinese smuggler organisations.

And that was saying something.

*

Sherlock never said much, unless he was saying loads. This is what John found out.

He told a lot of stories. Very fast. His posh, baritone Kentish accent would rush over the words, snarkily and excitedly, and John found it fascinating. Sherlock called them deductions- John called them stories. Soon John knew all the stories of everyone in their Chemistry class, and John thought that was amazing.

No one else did.

The first time Sherlock was hit John hadn't been there. But when he sat down in his seat in Chemistry, late again, John saw the purple bruise, marring his delicate cheekbone and spreading right up to the bottom lid of his eye. Those eyes. That were the colour of something.

John wanted to rip the culprit's throat out.

"Tell me who did it," John spat, blue eyes shining feverishly as he seethed like a boiling kettle. "I'll kill them."

Sherlock turned to him, his face expressionless. "No."

John left it at that.

But there came times after that, and John took a few swings himself- Phillip, Mike, and even a snobbish girl named Sally ended up sprawled on the floor at John's hand. Sherlock never said anything, never reacted; his face never portrayed that he'd even registered the pain. But John knew.

And that is where it began. The feeling. The feeling that John had always felt but never recognised.

The feeling that Sherlock couldn't comprehend.

The feeling John latched onto like it was an oxygen supply, or a drug, or caffeine.

And the feeling Sherlock hated.

There was no freedom, after it began. Sherlock belonged to John and John belonged to Sherlock.

There was no choice. No escape.

No mercy.

Not ever.


	2. Purple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No one knows much about the human soul. But I'll let you in on a little secret. It exists."
> 
> John and Sherlock are soulmates. But they're only teenagers when they meet, and suddenly all that was important before no longer is. Sherlock hates it. John couldn't care less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so be prepared for angst. There is implied bullying in this chapter, bruising, dark thoughts, etc. 
> 
> I also apologise for any mistakes or typos. If you would be so kind to point them out to me, I can correct them. I don't have a beta. It's just me. So please please do correct me if I've made a mistake.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> (I think it would be cruel to tell you to enjoy this.)

Sherlock's mind is an inexplicable domain. The fact it has potentially been containable in something as trivial as grey and white matter, is a fact that does not fail to amaze. It is a rare sharpness held in soft tissue; a burning brightness locked away in a dark cavernous skull. It is a library copiously filled with books and papers that range from Shakespeare's entire collection to the anatomies of each of Darwin's finches. There is almost nothing that Sherlock does not know.

And yet.

John Watson, aspiring army doctor, mellow Baskerville Grammar attendee, humble and romantic teenager. John Watson, an inescapable puzzle, a crippling warmth, sunny eyes and crescent moon mouth. John Watson, frustratingly simple, mind-numbingly interesting and sickeningly beautiful. 

John.

Sherlock’s mind can barely process his name, let alone his entire existence on this cold and solid planet. Sherlock’s mind can barely _breathe_ , because John is incomprehensible, he is a frighteningly large collection of opposites and antonyms, he is a concept that Sherlock will never be able to understand. And he will try, God he will try so _goddamn hard_ , to pick apart each string of flesh and bone and sinew, to dig and scrabble in his chest, to squeeze every morsel of information from each wet, pink organ- and still, he will be left clueless.

And Sherlock hates it. He hates John and his deep, blue eyes. Hates his fucked up reasoning and his unwavering _niceness_. Hates his gently tanned skin, hates his soft blonde hair that seeps into dirty brown roots, hates his minty and buttery breath that Sherlock feels in his ear every Chemistry lesson and every lunch break and every _second_ \- Sherlock hates, Sherlock breathes, Sherlock hates.

He will always be helpless and hopeless now. This mind, this miracle that he harbours in his head, can barely function- Shakespeare’s playwrights are jumbled, act three is act one and _nothing makes sense_. Darwin’s finches can’t fly, they are alligators, they are _wrong_. All the types on tobacco ash have been smoked, all his samples burnt- _and where has the solar system run off to?_

It is all John’s fault. 

_And what an odd love this is?_

*

His body is a masterpiece. The paintbrushes are fists. 

He thinks his favourite is the lavender one blossoming across his lower ribs. It is a pretty colour, pinkish and childlike, with mauve spatters crossing his torso. The one on his shin is green, and it spreads like wet watercolour into a yellow. There are red ones, small as fingerprints, on his upper arms and wrists. But his favourite is the purple. He’s always loved purple.

Sherlock buttons the cuff of his shirt, eyes dull and empty. No time for thoughts in the morning, no time at all. He would only think of John, and then John would slow him down, and then he would be late for Chemistry again.

His bag holds a rainbow of textbooks, all useless, because Sherlock has already memorised every page- he even knows the copyright print word for word. But he takes them anyway, because he has Chemistry first period, and John will make him forget and then he’ll be stupid, just like everyone else. 

He ignores Mycroft and his Eggs Benedict, because he’d always hated hollandaise sauce, and instead opts for an empty stomach. Much better than his brother’s sticky cooking. He slams their white front door behind him, and then marches angrily up his road, scowling at anyone that gets in his way. 

As he approaches Baskerville Grammar’s rusty black gates, he wonders who will paint him today. 

*

John smiles sweetly as Sherlock slumps into a seat next to him. The taller boy wants to slap his sugary smile from his lips, but he also wants to kiss him. And just like that, his mind it numb, and he can’t remember whether Monet painted ballerinas or if that was Dali and he’s just been fooled his entire life. 

“Hey Sherlock,” John says, flicking open his textbook and scanning the page. “How was your evening?”

“Boring,” Sherlock growls weakly, letting his own spidery fingers hover over the glossary. He wants to double-check the definition of homeostasis. He can’t trust his mental dictionary anymore.

“That’s a shame,” John hums, blonde eyelashes brushing his cheek as he looks down at his notes. “Mine was quite nice. I cooked a stir fry for Harry and Mum.”

Facts whirl around in Sherlock’s head, all about John, because that is the one thing he can grasp at the moment. Insignificant facts about John. He frowns.

“Chicken?” Sherlock quips, pressing his pen to his lower lip. John nods, grinning. “Harry didn’t even eat half of it. She was too drunk to keep it down.” He crosses his arms, staring hard at John. “How is that a nice evening?”

John shakes his head, sighing. “I can’t get anything past you, can I?”

“Of course not.”

“It was nice because she actually sat down to dinner. She wasn’t passed out on someone else’s sofa.”

“And being passed out on yours is infinitely better?”

“Correct.”

Sherlock’s frown deepens. “I don’t understand you John.”

“I don’t understand you either,” he counters, jabbing his pen in his friend’s direction. “You’re the most complex teenager I know.” John squints at him, and Sherlock feels uneasy, like he’s being judged or scrutinised. “See, you’ve told me almost everything there is to know about each person in this class. Yet, I don’t know a single thing about you.”

It’s then that Mrs Jenkins walks in, and Sherlock feels safe again from John’s burning gaze.

*

He manages to avoid the artists until lunchtime, when they corner him behind the school’s tennis courts. Their paintbrushes hit his stomach and shoulder, and while he lies there gasping, Sherlock prays for purple.

John isn’t here this time- _thank God_ \- because he has football practice. The field is right next to the tennis courts, and yet John will not find him, because he lies hidden behind the brickwork. If he were to lift his head, his curls would be seen through the green mesh, so he doesn’t, he just lies still, because John can’t find him, not this time. 

He lies there until lunch is over, until the click of football studs on the courts dies away and the changing room door slams shut. He’s still panting slightly, the air hissing between his clenched teeth as he claws his way up to a standing position. Then he decides to go home, because he has Art last period and he’s done enough art for today. 

The walk home is arduous. Sherlock can feel the bruise growing over his shoulder, like a honey suckle vine, tangling itself sweetly in his flesh. Every time he swings his arm forward it aches, every time he twists the wrong way it aches, every time he _breathes_ it aches, and so eventually, he just slides down onto the pavement, barely a street away from his house.

He stays there until the end of school. He stays there even after several students paint his shins as they walk past, laughing and chattering like seagulls as they make their way home. He stays there even when the sky becomes as dark as his ribs, even when the moon, like John’s smile, lights up dimly the trees and roads surrounding him. 

The dark is his veil. The dark is his solace.

He does not have an orange cocoon of light anymore. 

It’s Mycroft who picks him up. He tusks and huffs as he ushers Sherlock into the car, away from all the eyes peering out curtained windows. He says nothing the entire journey home. And Sherlock is grateful. 

*

John doesn’t see Sherlock the next day. He waits for him at lunch, but the tall, beautiful boy never shows. 

And John feels empty. He is missing something again, and the balance has been disrupted, because Sherlock always comes to school, and John always follows him everywhere, and then Sherlock goes home and they start again the next day. It’s a routine, and it has been interrupted by his absence. 

And this makes John wonder. It makes him wonder about ethics and fates, because suddenly to him, the name ‘Sherlock Holmes’ sounds like anything _but_ routine. It sounds like adventure. It sounds like danger. It sounds like the unexpected. 

Perhaps Sherlock and John- _Sherlock and John, a pair of names that just fits, almost like a single word with one definition but encompasses two different people_ \- should not mean balance, should not mean routine. Perhaps it should be everything and nothing all at once. _Perhaps_ , John thinks, _it should simply mean insanity_.

And this, to John, completely makes sense.

*

Sherlock’s mind is an inexplicable domain. You cannot draw a diagram of it, or sum it up in a post on Wikipedia. It almost shouldn’t exist- it is alien, strange, freakish. It is a mess of thoughts orbiting around one dark and cruel truth- Sherlock is not normal.

But Sherlock’s body is a masterpiece. And the paintbrushes are fists.

So Sherlock sits and prays for purple.


End file.
